Snow Storm
by BookWorm4307
Summary: "...the steps he made towards his destination were quickly covered by more snow, swiftly erasing any sign of his presence. This was hardly surprising; after all, half of him had already been erased why shouldn't the rest of him fade away as well?" A short one-shot about George after the loss of his other half.


**Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to the Harry Potter world, all of the characters, places and ideas come from J.K. Rowling.**

AN: Today is the first day of snowfall.

While watching it fall from my college dorm window in NJ,

I can't help but think about the duality of a snow storm;

while there is the fear of what it can bring, there is also

the hope that it can bring us back to better times when

snow meant snowmen, snowball fights and snow angels.

This weather made me think of writing this short one-shot about George after the loss of his other half.

I hope you like it!

* * *

Snow Storm

Small snowflakes tumble down from their cloudy homes in hopes of finding a new place to settle down. Many had found a new but very temporary home upon his bright red hair. It was amazing how quickly they melted when they touched the flames of his locks. He certainly felt cold enough to form an iceberg.

The earth looked so utterly dead; the trees were crippled and stripped of their coverings which made them seem so completely vulnerable. The sky was a daunting dreary color that looked as though it went on forever. It reminded him of a coloring book that had been completely filled in with grey and white tones. No color, no life.

And it was quiet. Unnaturally quiet. Even his heart beat seemed to slow down so that it would not hinder upon the silence. Similarly, the snow barely made an audible crunch as he walked forward. The steps he made towards his destination were quickly covered by more snow, swiftly erasing any sign of his presence. This was hardly surprising; after all, half of him had already been erased why shouldn't the rest of him fade away as well?

Even through the storm he could see the form that he sought. It was not large and it was not particularly outstanding. That bothered him. It should be great and it should be memorable. Perhaps that was the problem; no one really wanted to remember. He wouldn't forget. He couldn't. He would carry this with him forever.

He stopped and stared at it. His fingers carefully touched the cold gravestone. How hard, cold and unfeeling it felt beneath his touch. So unlike the young man who slept beneath it. There was something inexplicable about the feeling within himself. It was easy enough to push away emotions or thoughts. However, you cannot argue something that is written in stone.

Had his heart actually stopped? It felt like the quiet beats had finally slowed down to a halt. They say you get over it slowly, that you get better. But that isn't true, is it? His heart was as hard as the rock beneath his fingers and as still as the brother he had lost.

Out of nowhere a great clump of snow smacked him in the back of his head. He stilled even further. Could it be? Can the dead still play tricks on us even when they are no longer here? He slowly turned around looking for his reflection.

His eyes caught his own clashing hair and speckled freckled face. That grin that slanted mischievously was their own trademark. Oh, but that wasn't him.

Ginny had crept up on him in a way that only a Weasley could. Well, only that a Weasley Twin would. He knew his other half would have given top points for her achievement and the two would have beamed with pride in their protégé. But before he could decide how to respond a second clump of snow, larger than the last, was covering his face.

Her giggles pushed against the eerie silence like a ripple of water. The more she laughed the further it seemed to carry, penetrating the morbidity of the place.

He wiped the icy mass from his eyes and felt them crinkle in quiet mirth. She made her way up to him and threw her arms around him in flamboyant affection.

"Georgie, he isn't here," she whispered.

He stepped back from her and frowned. Of course he was here. He was right under his feet. Tangibly.

She shook her head and touched his face with a mitted hand, "You're too busy looking at that rock to notice that he's all around you." She lifted her face to the sky and allowed for drops of snow to kiss her red cheeks. He glanced up to see what she was looking at, but all he could see was more grey.

She stopped and turned her face back to his. "Snow is his favorite."

That was true. There was something undeniably delightful about charming snowballs to bounce off of people's heads. It had been his idea to pelt them off of Quirrell's turban. He deemed it their greatest achievement to throw snowballs at the face of Voldemort.

"It's okay to be sad, but you need to remember to be happy too. You know he would want you to be," she said earnestly.

Of course he would want him to be happy. They were connected in a way no one else could understand; when one was happy, so was the other. But that went both ways. If one was sad so was the other. So since one of them was dead, technically he should be too.

She shook her head, "Doesn't work that way Georgie. You're thinking that because his heart stopped beating that he's dead. But your heart still beats, you keep living. That means he does too."

He tilted his head. How was she doing that?

She shrugged, "I learned from the best."

That tugged a smile onto his face.

She leaned down to the ground and collected more snow into her hand. He moved to back away from her but she stopped him before he could. She held the snow out for him to take. He frowned inquisitively. She indicated the tombstone with a slight nod of her head.

He stayed immobile for a moment. But then, tentatively, he held out his hand. When she placed it in his hand he pulled out his wand and whispered an incantation over it. The snow leapt from his grasp and took a pugnacious stance above the stone. It would be ready for any visitors. When they approached it would loyally pelt the individual.

Ginny smiled before whispering her own incantation. The only way to cure the attack would be laughter.

He smiled fondly and felt a small chuckle roll from his own throat. Somewhere, his other half was laughing too. This is exactly what he would have wanted. Nothing fixes sorrow better than the ability to laugh.

He leaned down and draped an arm around the shorter girl's shoulders and squeezed her tightly against his side warmly. The pain would still have a grip on him. He would still cry himself to sleep and tomorrow his heart would still be broken. That doesn't go away in short moments. No, pain has a way of holding onto one's soul in the most imprisoning manner. But he knew there was a key; it was somewhere within his grasp. One day, not tomorrow, not next week, maybe not even next year. But one day, he would hold that key and he would unlock the deadbolt.


End file.
